in my own backyard

Dorothy said it best, "... if I ever go looking for my heart's desire again, I won't look any further than my own backyard ..."

I was recently inspired by an issue of Garden Design Magazine. It's not a magazine I often pick up and I only happened to glance at the latest issue because it was the topic of discussion in a work meeting. I thumbed through an issue while visiting my local independent bookstore. The pages showed ubiquitous modern architecture with polished metal accents, pristine pools, formal plantings and artistically placed palm trees ... nothing that pertains to the reality of a front lawn trodden by bovines and perennial beds ravaged by rough-and-tumble neighborhood dogs. But then ... daylilies.

My front lawn features a hillside with swaths of orange daylilies ... or "ditch lilies" as one website described them. An invasive plant that shouldn't be sold at garden centers because anyone who has them will gladly give them away. I started resisting them with Roundup early in the spring. They completely overpowered the stairs leading to my front door and the short bloom time of only a few weeks in July rules them out as an option for total occupation, the way I see it. But what could be paired with these behemoth plantings ... aha - more behemoth plantings of hardy cultivars that will duke it out with daylilies. Thank you, Garden Design!

If you can't beat 'em - join 'em. I started thinking about how I could extend the season of orange blossoms atop lovely arching stems. There must be ditch lilies, or hybrid cousins, that bloom later in the season. I started researching - only to discover a hatred that exists for the plant and its invasive attitude. I decided that the Helenium Mardi Gras would have to carry the burden when ... this morning, I walked into my backyard to discover a mound on double-petalled ditch lillies just starting to bloom. Eureka! The solution was right there in my own back yard - literally.

Fred's Old Mare

The Fourth of July was a perfect summer day. The cast of characters behind the line at the chicken barbecue were all classic Vermonters, and the flavor of the meal was enhanced by every aspect of the friendly, bucolic setting. A dozen picnic tables positioned in a grid across the expanse of sunny lawn were nearly full and I found a place to squeeze in between a middle aged couple sitting across from each other on one side and on the other, two more pairings - one younger and another much older.

The clopping of horses' hooves sounded on the pavement behind us. Fred had been providing horse drawn wagon rides all morning. A friend had told me that Fred is a charmer - a real talker. I overheard a woman asking him how much it cost to take a wagon ride. Fred just looked down at her from his wooden bench and without missing a beat said, "It'll cost you a smile."

The man to my right at the picnic table suddenly decided to share a story with the impromptu group as we slurped fork fulls of baked beans and licked barbecue sauce from our greasy fingers. He told us how he lived a little ways up the road, not far from Fred's farm. He walks past Fred's horse pasture every day and puts a few carrots in his pocket before leaving home. He told us that the young draft horses always run over to the fence to meet him but he had to toss a carrot to Fred's old mare because the young horses wouldn't allow her to approach the fence. The man said he shared his observation with Fred one day and asked him about it. Fred told him it was the same way with hay. The young horses would chase the mare away from the hay whenever she got close enough to grab a mouthful - and that she was getting her comeuppance, since she did the same thing to them when they first arrived and she was the queen of the pasture. We all chuckled and the man went on to tell us that Fred lost his old mare last spring - she was 30 years old. He buried her in the pasture with a full bale of hay.

Hostas and Hydrangeas

It's a little overwhelming. The plantings around the house were a big selling point for me, but they're all in such need of TLC, that I could hardly decide where to start. Since curb appeal is about setting first impressions, I decided to start there.

I restrained myself as much as possible last summer - maintaining the mantra that I wouldn't change anything until I lived with it for a year. I waited to see what was growing in the gardens while trying to keep them somewhat weed-free. One of the problems, when you don't know what's there, is telling the weeds from the perennials. I managed to dislodge a few campanulas and God-knows-what-else along the way last summer. I learned to identify some unfamiliar weeds like gout weed and stinging nettles (my new arch nemesis).

Everyone has their own gardening style, but I'm continually shaking my head in wonder when it comes to  understanding the design sense of the previous owners. And the abundance of deciduous shrubs - especially hydrangeas - is baffling me. There is such little space for sun-loving plants and those are the places that seem to be overrun with hostas ... so many hostas and hydrangeas!

So, the big project was the perennial garden located along the fence line. I discovered a few perennials that I didn't even know existed. They were nearly choked out by gout weed and the battle for survival of the fittest taking place among the perennials already in place. There were three giant blue/gray hostas hogging the spotlight in this border. Although this garden gets lots of morning light, there's a fence and several mature trees that designate this patch of ground as only party sunny. The first order of business was to get those hostas out of the sunniest spot in the plot. I broke a shovel and a garden fork in the process - first time I've ever snapped a wooden handle before. I relocated the peonies and white irises, re-edged the garden, making it about a third bigger - giving the geranium, bachelor button and ladies mantle that were living in the front of the border a little more breathing space. I ripped out the gout weed by hand (as suggested by Donald, at Edgewater Farm - his knowledge is amazing). and put down some landscaping fabric along the fence line. A new Kerria japonica found a shady home at the back of the garden, between a straggly hydrangea (of course) and a spectacular mature Mountain Pink. I filled the middle of the planting with Ruby Star coneflowers, globe thistle, bee balm, digitalis and a selection of annuals to fill in the spaces while these new introductions take hold. It's a pretty traditional mix of pink, blue and yellow with splashes of chartreuse and white for punch. Overall, I'm pleased with the result and I look forward to seeing it all come together sans weeds, in the coming years.

Among the annuals I planted to fill in the holes were: snowland daisies, victoria blue salvia, cherry profusion zinnias, and rose nasturtium that I planted from seed. Although a lush layer of pine/spruce mulch has kept most weeds to a minimum, the area where the nasturtium seedlings were planted has been an incubator for nettle seedlings. One afternoon, while plucking nettles, a car stopped along the road behind me. I stood up and turned, expecting someone to ask for directions or something. The woman in the car shouted to me from the opened passenger-side window, "Your garden is beautiful!" I smiled and thanked her. She said it a second time and then drove away. I have to agree - it is beautiful.

Guests Welcome (in exchange for scotch)

I love to hear overnight guests say that staying with me is like staying in a bed and breakfast. What a nice compliment! It's fun to share my home with friends and to do what I can to make them feel comfortable and relaxed.

Some dear friends stayed with me recently and it was so much fun to share in good food and fine spirits - scotch to be specific. We sampled five single malts after a day of skiing together. Our apres ski scotch tasting warmed us all from within and we agreed that Cragganmore does indeed taste like ripe bananas and the floral/almond nose of Glenmorangie original made it our favourite.

I wonder what good times like these the farmhouse on Sugar Hill has hosted over its many years. Its small rooms create a sense of intimacy and I hope it's as comfortable for visitors as it is for me. I try to imagine what socializing must have been like in the mid-1800s. I wonder how many people over the years  have enjoyed a glass of scotch in this house after a long day in the outdoors.

First Impressions

Closing day was exciting and stressful. I vacillated between a feeling of eagerness to finally own my own home and a sense of impending doom that, as a single woman who knew nothing about owning a home, I was embarking on the road to emotional and financial ruin for a second time in my lifetime.

After an hour of signing and initialling documents, I accepted a fistful of keys and a stack of appliance owners' manuals from the sellers, a basket of pansies from my real estate agent and drove to pick up Nelson, my three-year-old Airedale, to introduce him to our new home. I had a split of champagne I'd been saving for a special occasion stashed in the back corner of my fridge. It had been a gift to ring in the new millennium but, at the time, that didn't seem like something worth wasting a good bottle of bubbly over. Closing on my own house was definitely a cork-popping occasion. After clawing my way out of a car repo, a foreclosure, tons of credit card debt and the emotional trauma of an abusive marriage that didn't end well, I had achieved the American Dream of owning a home - a home of my own.

The house key with a laminated yellow fob displaying the name of the previous owners in black magic marker slid smoothly into the lock and Nelson and I entered through the kitchen door of our new home. I opened the champagne and filled a flute I had brought with us for the occasion. I unpacked some cheese and crackers that I shared with Nelson as I sipped the champagne and walked around the house. I enjoyed the second glass from the contented comfort of my new front-porch swing. I thumbed through the stack of owners' manuals I received at the closing. I was delighted to see that the stack of booklets included an area survey map with neighbors' names written in the appropriate lots and there was an old photo of the house taken in 1908.

After pouring the remainder of the champagne into my glass, I decided it was time to introduce Nelson to his new backyard. I opened the sliding glass door that leads to the back patio in time to see an older man, hunched over, scrambling along the fence and headed away from the house. I immediately deducted that it was my next door neighbor. I am going to go on record here as saying that it was the champagne that encouraged me to wave my arm in the air and shout, "yoo hoo! Are you my new neighbor? I'm Bonnie and I just bought this house!" He raised an arm behind his back without looking away from his task.

In the same instant that I realized he was chasing after a chicken, Nelson was gone like a shot and pouncing in a play posture between the man and his Rhode Island Red. The man let out a panicked moan. "It's okay," I hooted, "he won't hurt your chicken." What a stupid thing to say ... again, the champagne. I didn't know what Nelson would do with a running, wing-flapping hen on the loose. Fortunately for me, Nelson responded to my recall and the man, whose face I never did see, disappeared behind the stockade fence at the end of my property line.



Although a crisis was averted, I still felt like maybe we hadn't made a great first impression on our new next door neighbor.

Beyond the Bovines

Okay, so the cows were an attraction, but the charm of a remodelled 1837 farmhouse located 12 miles from work was a big draw too. It's funny how many of my wishlist items this house fulfilled ... odd things like I wanted mature maple trees, stone walls, a potting shed, a porch, chickens ... did I say chickens? No. Maybe sometime down the road, but not until after I get settled.


I did notice, on my first walk around the outside of the house, that there was a makeshift chicken coop in the far corner of the backyard.


As anyone who has purchased a home knows, there are a lot of phone calls and e-mails exchanged between real estate agents, sellers and buyers prior to closing day. The one that really made me laugh and confirmed the rural locale of my new home, came from my real estate agent one afternoon. It went something like this ...


Agent: The sellers would like to know if you would like to include their chickens in the purchase of your new home. They have two hens.


Me: No, I think I'll take a pass on their generous offer.

Several days later ...


Agent: The sellers have found a home for their chickens and would like to know if you would be willing to part with the coop, so they will have someplace to stay.


Me: It's a big sacrifice on my part, but yes, I guess if it means the chickens will be comfortable in their new home ...


The best part was moving in to discover that the chickens and their coop had moved about 20 feet away into the back corner of my neighbor's back yard.

It Must Have Been the Cows

I looked at quite a few houses and ended up buying the first one I saw. I think the clincher was when the real estate agent told me about how a neighboring farmer marches his herd of cows past the front door a couple of times a week during the summer. The cows rotate through different pastures throughout the grazing season and some of those pastures happen to be located down the road. Traffic stops, both ways, on the state highway at the end of my street and the ladies saunter along to greener pastures and back again when its milking time. I remember being enamoured by similar sights on trips around Ireland and England. Being a bit of an Anglophile, I just couldn't resist an old farmhouse with a frequent cow parade past the front door. It was honestly the biggest selling point for me.